I Really Wanted To Be on the Homecoming Court

It was 1999. I had recently celebrated my 17th trip around the sun, was a senior at Burlington Catholic Central and had missed the homecoming court by one vote. I was devastated. And not just regular devastated, but teenage devastated.

You remember. When the disappointment is felt so utterly deep in your soul that even thinking about it makes you want to curl up in a little ball, crawl inside a hole in the ground and never come out again. When you are absolutely certain your life is over and there is no possible way to recover from this level of social humiliation. Your only option is to disappear completely. Join the Witness Protection Program. Get relocated to the middle of nowhere Nebraska. Your name is now Jane Brown. You live quietly with your cats and will never speak of high school again.

That, or like, just literally die.

I really wanted to be on the homecoming court. It’s only with the clarity of hindsight that I see what it represented to me and why it hurt too much to miss out on what I thought, at the time, would prove not only to myself but to the entire, ahem, 250-person student body that I had made it. That I would have a seat at the table and would no longer be the one on the outside, my face pressed against the window, looking in.

You see, I had done what few others could do, especially at a very small school. I had climbed the social ranks from a Winnie-the-Pooh-sweater-wearing dweeb to an American-Eagle-ensemble-wearing … dweeb, but a dweeb who now hung out with the cool kids. This was not nothing. This was a long, awkward, almost impossible journey fueled by that determination and spunk that I believe only a true, Midwestern teenage girl has. (We’re hardy and determined.)

It all started when I was 4. My mom put me in kindergarten a bit early because, apparently, I knew that the arms of a stick figure came out of the body, not the head, and in 1987, that was enough to qualify me as intellectually gifted. But socially, I was certainly not quite there. Being the youngest in your class is cute and all until your peers start to outgrow you in more than just height.

The other girls stopped playing with Barbies when I was still deeply committed to recreating Days of Our Lives storylines with mine. Makeup became a thing when I was still content with being fresh-faced, blissfully unaware of the true power that mascara holds. Green Day and Oasis tapes were being exchanged at lunch over half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while I was jamming out to the Toy Story soundtrack on the way home from school.

But the most significant shift, of course, was when they were all getting their periods and talking about boys, and I was, well, not bleeding or caring about boys. One moment, you’re surrounded by friends, and the next, you’re sitting alone with your Woody doll, wondering where everyone else went. Like, I didn’t get the memo that belonging mattered. And I learned all too well that being the one left behind not only felt incredibly vulnerable but was also really fucking lonely.

While I started strong in kindergarten, by middle school and the beginning of high school, I was struggling everywhere. Mediocre grades, no friends and anxiety so bad that I would miss countless days of school due to ulcers forming in my young stomach. Because I couldn’t comprehend what was happening (big feelings, small body), my nervous system was in overdrive, doing whatever it could to protect me from school, which was no longer an emotionally safe environment for me.

But then, deep into the summer of 1997, right before my sophomore year commenced, I started bleeding. And to say this changed my life is an understatement. It was like my body was playing catch-up — full speed ahead! I had such a whirlwind of a transformation that summer that when I walked the hallways of Catholic Central those first few days as a sophomore, I had to tell people that it was me. It’s me, Jen Ganson.

Outwardly, I knew I looked like I had caught up and was quickly learning all the ins and outs of the privilege of being a conventionally attractive white girl. Inside, I was still — maybe even more — anxious, insecure and confused.

You know how exciting it is in the movies when the awkward, nerdy lead character gets a makeover, and everyone is like “OMG, we had no idea there was a total fox under those glasses and overalls”?? What those movies fail to really dig into is how uncomfortable and confusing it is to process that, OK, now you’re worthy of it all.

Suddenly you’re getting invitations to the best barn parties in town. At lunch, people save you a seat at the table right next to the football players. You get asked to prom by, like, the cutest guy in school. Very quickly, you’re shoved into this brand new world with a different set of responsibilities, subtle social cues you need to pick up on quickly and a code of conduct with no rule book — a world that simply did not exist when I was a nerd. It was like being dropped into a new country and having to learn the language and the customs quickly to survive.

So, during my senior year, when it came time to vote for homecoming court, I knew there was a real chance I would make it, giving me definitive proof that I was actually popular. It was the first time in my life that I sought social recognition, and it was slightly terrifying to place that much power in other people’s hands. I wanted to prove to them, but more so to myself, that I FINALLY got the memo! That I fit in, which meant I was once again safe, secure and wanted.

I received insider information before the rest of the school, and in an attempt to make me feel better, my friend shared that I was this close — missing the court by one measly vote. I don’t remember if it made me feel any better at the time. Knowing myself, I assume not, and that all I was left with was the cold, hard reality of the situation. I was still outside. I would be the only senior girl on the poms squad walking in the parade, not riding on the back of a convertible with my date, waving to my adoring fans. Not getting the moment I had been fantasizing about for weeks.

Still, I held my head high, slapped on a big smile and danced my way through the streets of Burlington, pretending my heart wasn’t a little broken and my ego thoroughly bruised. Being on display — not in the way I had longed for — was extremely uncomfortable. I mean, obviously the whole town was confused why I was here at the parade when I should clearly be at home packing my bags for Nebraska. But, more than that, the mean little voice inside of me, which had been telling me all along how ridiculous it was to think that I was popular, was particularly loud that day, claiming victory while shouting, “How stupid you are to think that you belong anywhere, let alone with the high school social elite?!”

I’m happy to report that I ended up not only surviving that parade, but also making it through my senior year of high school. And it turned out to be a really lovely year, full of good friends, solid grades and a whole collection of memories that could only belong to a late-90s high school experience. Hello, pager. Yes, I had one.

Obviously, this was a huge relief to my 17-year-old self. While I do enjoy visiting Nebraska, it certainly was not a place I wanted to put down roots.

So when May rolled around, I celebrated my graduation and eagerly started making plans for the fall. I was heading off to college to start a new life. Not as Jane Brown, but still as me, Jen Ganson.

It feels really good to admit that, yes, I had longed to be on the 1999 homecoming court. It feels honest. And brave. Because admitting that you wanted something you’re not supposed to want, like recognition or belonging or proof that you are enough, opens up a real truth. That wanting to feel chosen is not shallow. It’s just part of being human.

It would take me another decade or so to even recognize my need for external validation, and another decade on top of that to actually start to peel away that need and learn how to provide validation for myself. It was a sharp realization, that this need had been a significant driving force in my life. One that had influenced decisions that, in hindsight, it had no place being a part of.

When you are always looking to others to acknowledge you, to choose you, to vote you onto some version of a homecoming court, what you are really doing is spending your life waiting. Or worse, you are building a life you will not even recognize when you wake up from the trance. Because while you are seeking the approval of others, you are making very important decisions that shape your life, and only you are left with the consequences. Eventually, there is resentment you might not even fully understand.

I finally said fuck it and named myself queen of my own homecoming court. For the past year, I have been making big, life-changing decisions as if I were the queen of my court, on a mission to come home to myself after years of what I now see was an unnecessary and impossible-to-win battle. In doing so, I stopped waiting to be chosen and started building a life that actually looks and feels like me. It has reshaped me and my kingdom in ways I never could have imagined.

Being a queen is anything but easy, as it requires you to truly see yourself without looking away. It asks you to hold sovereignty over your own empire. And, when you do return home, there is no fanfare, no royal court celebration. In fact, it’s pretty quiet. There might be a lone piece of confetti on the ground, but that’s definitely from a New Year’s Eve bash a few years ago. Initially, it feels lonely until you realize it’s not the dreaded “outside looking in” lonely. And it’s a mislabeled feeling. Because, when you feel true peace for the first time, it can be easy to define it as loneliness — instead of stability, self-trust and self-care (another sorely misunderstood concept).

My growth is tangible. I recognize myself more fully now, and, in turn, when the members of my royal court (friends, clients, co-workers, strangers even!) acknowledge me or recognize me for something, it’s just a bonus. And, I believe them. Well, mostly, I’m still tackling some imposter syndrome, but this needed to be the first leap.

And with that leap came the understanding that the titles I give myself hold much more power than the ones given to me by others.